It's this insane love that got me burnt;

Something crazily beautiful yet stormy.

I'm yet to die beautiful

in the moonlit grave.

This town's swelling in pain—

unfathomable hours.

I can't keep floating on pink dreams;

the silence's too much to bear

under the dripping honey sunshine.

The air smells of cold death.

Burning masks at the faraway hill.

Humans

are way more beautiful

behind the glittery masks.

I try to look at the world through it:

Dying embers burning alive on a beige-shaded day,

and I'm walking dead on bloodied scents.

Maybe, that's how things work

behind the silver and gold beaded masks.

Crushing beauty upon blackened bodies.